


Tide

by chervilspotatoes



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Victor Nikiforov, The Beach Scene, Vulnerable Viktor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 15:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20799017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chervilspotatoes/pseuds/chervilspotatoes
Summary: And he thought he was good at giving people what they wanted, but Yuuri only responds to aching, painful vulnerability and huge concessions. The wide crack in his soul wants Yuuri’s companionship. But Yuuri only seems willing to grant it after seeing the crack. Every one of Viktor’s instincts fights against it.





	Tide

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while, but I'm back with this. I couldn't get over the imagery of Yuuri slowly eroding Viktor's persona away and washing over him like the tide.

The call goes to voicemail. Yakov doesn’t have a personalized voicemail message. Viktor hangs up. It would be ridiculous to think he was worthy of conversation when Viktor was no longer paying him. If Viktor retired, Yakov would support him and give him structure as long as he was retiring to something Yakov approved of. A choreographer or judge, perhaps. Unconditional support was too much to ask for. 

Viktor wonders if Yakov realizes how poorly it shines on Yakov’s own abilities that he doesn’t believe his star pupil has learned enough from him in eleven years to be able to coach someone who was already the #6 men’s figure skater in the world.

Viktor wonders if Yakov realizes his much Viktor is lost, adrift. He thinks Yakov realizes this, at least. His assessment is true. Viktor, the immature idiot, has abandoned the hard won stability and esteem in his life in search for ephemeral, imaginary things like love and acceptance. He should know by now--the only things that talk are beauty and money. Beauty makes money and money makes beauty. 

Viktor lets his phone sag onto the futon that is his new bed. “Makka,” he calls softly. At least his dog doesn’t reject him, curling by his side just like they used to back in Russia. Viktor may as well be in Russia. He is doing nothing good here, forcing himself where he isn’t wanted. Yuuri doesn’t want him in his life in any capacity. And there is nothing left for him in St. Petersburg except for his apartment. A more comfortable bed, different walls, but all the same. He sleeps for hours and wakes up tired no matter if he sleeps on a futon or a memory foam mattress.

Viktor slowly lowers himself onto the futon. He lays, holding Makkachin to his face and crying silently. A great chasm opens in his chest and his tears dry up. It sucks him in, taking all semblance of time and self with it. There may or may not be an alarm set for the morning. If there isn’t, it’s not like Yuuri would be awake to even notice, let alone care. He wouldn’t be missed. He isn’t missed. He could just lay on this futon forever and the only one to miss him would be Makkachin.

Moving is far beyond his capabilities currently. He can fly and turn on the ice, but he is immobilized now. Viktor may or may not sleep.

Viktor knows he seems effortless. He has purposely made himself seem that way, masked himself behind layers of nonchalance and charm. Viktor Nikiforov is a genius, an irrevocable flirt, and gorgeous at all times of the day and year. 

It is hard to let that go. A public front is heavily dependent on appearance, after all. If Viktor Nikiforov is not continually gorgeous, then he slowly falls apart in the public eye. The public loses interest at the first sign of weakness, at the first flaw.

The first time Yuuri saw him putting on makeup, Viktor was still applying powder to his skin. He thought since it was just going to be an ordinary day, he could get by with minimal products, just some foundation, powder, eyebrow pencil, eyeliner, and mascara. Yuuri pushed open the door to Viktor’s room in the inn and blinked slowly at him. Viktor quickly slid the powder under his blotting cloth, trying to sweep his eyeliner and mascara under it as well. The silence lengthens uncomfortably. It’s not like Yuuri doesn’t know what the products are for; he is no stranger to competition makeup. It’s just that Yuuri doesn’t use it except at competitions.

“This makes so much more sense,” Yuuri said finally. 

“What?”

“Your lashes.” Yuuri continues. “Always wondered how they were black when your hair is” he gestures widely in the direction of Viktor’s hair, “that.”

Viktor self consciously puts one hand in his hair. His eyelashes match his hair, a pale shimmery silver that easily gets lost in most lighting. Combined with the matching paleness of his eyebrows, his face looks strangely washed out and featureless. His constant use of eyebrow pencil to make his eyebrows more visible and mascara to make his eyelashes an appealing black has never been questioned. He is also one of those people who freckles in the sun, which is fine for other people, but not fine for Viktor Nikiforov, Russia’s legend. 

Yuuri takes a couple steps towards where Viktor sits cross legged on the floor. Viktor feels a strong urge to back away. His pulse spikes and adrenaline floods his limbs. He is not ready to be seen, and being seen means being Seen. If Yuuri can tell the color of his lashes from the doorway, then at this closer distance he could see any number of distasteful things about Viktor’s face. He is not done, he is not ready. He is not perfect yet. Yuuri stops approaching and it is then that Viktor realizes he has leaned away from Yuuri’s approach, leaning back on his hands to maintain distance.

Yuuri’s face colors and he blinks several times behind his blue-framed lenses. His voice has gone soft and timid when he says, “I’m sorry, Viktor. I’ll wait for you outside.”

He leaves and latches the door behind himself. Viktor feels lost and conflicted. Why did Yuuri decide he finally felt confident enough to come in Viktor’s room now, when he isn’t ready? Viktor has been trying to get Yuuri in here for weeks.

Viktor closes his eyes, then raises his head. It is time to finish his face and face the day.

Four days later, Viktor is sitting by Yuuri at the beach, telling him the script from a beautiful love story. A man who wants Viktor to be himself. Viktor is unsure such either man exists. Does Yuuri really want to know him? Is Yuuri trying to make Viktor feel better about his obvious desperation to have Yuuri be involved with him, or does he imagine that the Real Viktor Nikiforov is better than what he has shown all these years to fans? And is Viktor a genuine person? He has been sliding on masks and slipping into roles so long. Will Viktor fall apart with no persona to adopt? People like when he isn’t himself. They like when he contours himself to please them, they love him that way, in that shallow way real life people do. The love that exists in stories isn’t real. People don’t love Viktor unless he changes. 

Viktor puts on all his makeup the next day except for his mascara as a challenge. Yuuri seems abnormally fixated on his eyelashes, and he already saw them earlier, anyway. 

Yuuri meets him over breakfast. Viktor can see when Yuuri sees his silver eyelashes, soft and fleeting like butterfly wings, flutter through the air as he blinks. Viktor imagines they quiver and wait for judgment, but that would be absurd. They are eyelashes. Yuuri’s eyes brighten, but he is silent. Viktor longs to know what Yuuri is thinking. He feels so naked with this between them, even something as gossamer soft as his eyelashes.

As they are walking to the rink, Yuuri is quiet and contemplative. While Yuuri is unlocking the door to Ice Castle, he turns and quickly gets out, “You look beautiful,” before scurrying through the door. Viktor feels warmth take root in his chest. The subject is dropped, but Viktor is aware of his eyelashes all day. 

The call goes to voicemail. Viktor hangs up quickly. He wanted a bit of advice, was that too much to ask? Who else would Viktor turn to but Yakov in this? He has no idea how to coach someone. And he thought he was good at giving people what they wanted, but Yuuri only responds to aching, painful vulnerability and huge concessions. The wide crack in his soul wants Yuuri’s companionship. But Yuuri only seems willing to grant it after seeing the crack. Every one of Viktor’s instincts fights against it.

Viktor isn’t picky about his liquor tonight. He usually enjoys swirling his wines and delicately sipping his champagnes and tastefully milking his cocktail through whatever event and crowd he is in. But tonight, he unearths a truly awful bottle of vodka that tastes like varnish, sits on his futon, and takes a generous swallow. Viktor remembers seeing Yakov dejectedly sit at the table, staring off into the distance as he got drunker and drunker when Lilia filed for divorce. 

The look in Yakov’s eyes haunts Viktor. He doesn’t want to fall, to be vulnerable. Showing yourself to someone brings that deep pain that never heals. People never want forever.

Viktor drinks, and drinks, and drinks, slumping into the futon for the sleep of the dead.

A hand shaking his shoulder rouses Viktor. Momentarily frightened and disoriented, he jerks in the stranger’s hold and his eyes fly open. Through the haze of his headache and in front of his eyes, he can discern Yuuri, leaning over him, looking worried.

“Viktor, are you all right? Are you sick?” Viktor awkwardly flails his limbs to get himself seated, pushing through the pounding in his skull. His eyes flick to the empty bottle of vodka on the floor. Following his gaze, Yuuri sees it and purses his lips. “Do you need some pain medication and water? I’ll see what my mother can make for your hangover.”

Viktor feels worse the more the morning goes on. “You should go practice. See if Minako or Yuuko will watch you-“

Yuuri’s eyes flash. “I’m not leaving you.” With that pronouncement, he rises and closes the door behind himself with a snick. Viktor is flushed with shame. His hair is greasy with sweat, yesterday’s makeup caked on his face. He smells like a bar. Some coach he is, having his student take care of him and nurse him, taking away his practice time. 

Yuuri returns with a white tablet and a glass of water, promising his mother’s hangover cure soon. Viktor takes the pill and chugs the water, which feels heavenly on his scratchy throat.

For some reason, Yuuri stretches next to him as Viktor eats. Then he starts dancing and Viktor is enchanted. He feels much better and his heart is so light he gets up to his feet. Before he knows what he’s doing, he is laughing and dancing with Yuuri, though not nearly as close as the banquet. His heart beats double time in his chest. Viktor is sure Yuuri can feel it where their fingers are loosely clasped. His throat closes up and more than anything he wants Yuuri to consume him.

Instead he tosses his head and releases Yuuri’s hand, sitting on the floor. “Cool down stretches, now,” he softly commands, more out of needing something to say than anything else. Viktor’s heart is still beating rapidly in his chest as he looks at Yuuri’s soft eyes. He missed a day of training to dance around a banquet room with his idiot coach. Viktor feels heavy with the knowledge. 

They are at the beach again, the tranquil splash of the waves equally reminiscent of St. Petersburg and Hasetsu. Viktor rubs sunscreen onto his face, looking at Yuuri, who is watching him intently. Knowing by now that probing would be fruitless, he asks brightly, “Is it all rubbed in?”

Yuuri squints intently at his face, then raises a thumb to rub at a spot above his left eyebrow. Delicate wisps of hair half stick to his forehead, Yuuri must be feeling it tickle his thumb as well. Viktor feels paradoxically bowled over by the simple touch. It is over quickly but it burns like the best kind of fire after Yuuri pulls away.

“Do you want me to do your back?” Viktor asks. It is the heat of summer, and Yuuri nods and turns. Viktor diligently covers Yuuri’s back in sunscreen, touched by Yuuri’s acquiescence. Yuuri’s skin is so smooth, Viktor wants to touch it more, hold Yuuri all the time. After Viktor finishes, Yuuri resolutely rises and sets himself behind Viktor. Slightly taken aback by Yuuri’s attitude, Viktor submits to Yuuri’s hands smoothing sunscreen over his skin. It’s been ages since he’s been touched, Viktor realizes. Who was the last person to touch him? When was the last time he was touched and it meant something? Yuuri’s touch speaks of care as plain as anything. Viktor thickly swallows and feels his face heat. Viktor worries about the pink flush showing on his face, clear of all makeup for the water. He could have used his waterproof supply, but Yuuri thought he was beautiful.

Yuuri closes the cap on the sunscreen and Viktor uses the moment to scramble to his feet and run straight for the water. He loses himself in the waves, in the easy laughter that flows between them. He is so light and happy even after they head for the showers to rinse off before going back to the onsen. 

Viktor reaches for Yuuri’s hair to wash it free of salt and Yuuri takes it as a challenge. Before Viktor knows it, they are playfully rubbing at each other’s scalps under the spray. Viktor’s heart flips and drops into his stomach, leaving a firebrand like Yuuri’s thumb on his forehead in its wake. He knows he’s gone for the man currently heedlessly mussing his silvery hair, the thing that sets him apart. Viktor hopes it won’t hurt much when Yuuri leaves him.

Viktor actually is sick this time, not waking up after imbibing a fantastic amount of awful vodka. Yuuri comes in his room to see him, and apparently Yuuri knows instantly what’s going on and doesn’t want to get sick himself, as he almost immediately flees. That’s all right, Yuuri needs to be well to practice. He’s sure it’s clear what is wrong with him as he feels chilled to the bone and so hot.

Viktor isn’t sure how much later the door opens. It is Yuuri, with a tray in his hands. He sets it down by Viktor’s futon. “Drink this, Viktor.” Viktor isn’t sure what it is, especially not with his extremely limited sense of smell, but he drinks it. It is warm, and he is so cold. Yuuri starts eating his own breakfast. Viktor realizes he doesn’t give Yuuri enough credit. They have come a long way, and Yuuri wouldn’t leave him to suffer alone. Viktor reaches a hand out of his cocoon, thinks better of touching Yuuri like this, and just gestures in Yuuri’s direction. “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” is Yuuri’s answer. Viktor’s awareness begins to narrow as his body prepares for sleep. Viktor begins to hope for the impossible. In sickness and in health he cares.

Viktor gives up on subtlety. He knows what he wants and his heart flutters in his chest, hopeful and timid. He doesn’t hide; he’s already been washed over, conquered by Yuuri’s slow eroding at all his masks.

One evening as they sit side by side on Yuuri’s bed, Viktor lays his hand over Yuuri’s. “Good night Yuuri,” he says, looking right into Yuuri’s eyes. It is soft enough to be obvious, not too hard to push Yuuri.

“Viktor,” Yuuri intones. “What if you didn’t leave yet?” 

“I’m getting pretty sleepy. I don’t think I would be able to make it to my room.” Viktor wants this to be clear.

Yuuri scoots over, leaving enough room for Viktor to squeeze in the bed. Viktor’s heart is pounding as he lays himself on his back under the covers, instantly alert at the invitation. Yuuri lays beside him, propping himself up on his elbows. So close, Viktor can see the swirling brown and mahogany of Yuuri’s eyes and he falls. Yuuri’s eyes get closer and then are covered by his eyelids. 

Viktor’s eyes close automatically as his mouth relaxes, welcoming. Yuuri’s lips are on his lips, strands of his hair are brushing Viktor’s face. Viktor feels alive. He cups Yuuri’s face between his hands, kissing as sweetly as he can, hoping it’s as sweet as he feels. Yuuri’s hand is in his hair, brushing it back from over his eye. There’s a hand on his chest, whether for balance or as acknowledgment of Yuuri’s possession of the heart underneath, Viktor doesn’t know. Viktor softly kisses Yuuri some more, feeling more and more grounded and soaring above the clouds. 

“I love you, Viktor,” Viktor feels murmured against his lips. He opens his eyes to see Yuuri looking at him, not like others have looked at him, but actually seeing him. “And I love you,” Viktor replies, not wanting Yuuri to not hear this for one more second. Yuuri smiles and takes Viktor’s hand, drags it with him as he lays beside Viktor. He pulls out his phone, holding Viktor’s hand with the other. 

Viktor flexes his fingers just to feel Yuuri’s grip on them, feeling at peace and connected to himself and to Yuuri. His eyes close.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know any thoughts you have about this! This took me a long time to write (4-5 months), which is much longer than it usually takes me.


End file.
